October Country
by alessandriana
Summary: The caller ID is blank, and there's only static on the line. [spoilers for 4x06]


A/N: A little late for Halloween, I realize, but I had to wait for the ncisflashfic challenge to end. Also, apologies to Bradbury for the use of his title.

October Country

by: alessandriana

The day was weird enough. Kidnappings and housecleaning robots and Klingons and McGee the Elf Lord... all pretty strange stuff.

But their real Halloween starts later that night.

Tony's almost asleep, covers piled high over his head, brain in that hazy half-dozing space where time stretches and blurs. But sleep is coming, and coming fast, and of course that's right when his cell phone chooses to ring.

It's his work phone, and he long ago learned the folly of not answering it, so he wakes up enough to flail an arm out from under the covers and grab it off his side table. It disappears under the blankets, power cord trailing out behind.

"DiNozzo," he says, muffled by the weight of sleep.

_"--crackfizzlehiss--"_

"Sorry?" he says, waking up a little more. "You're breaking up. Who is this?" He checks the caller ID, but it's blank. The number is vaguely familiar, in an I should maybe recognize this kind of way.

Nothing but more static on the line, with the faint suggestion of voices in the chaos, sounds that never quite resolve into words.

"Haha," Tony says. "Real funny. A prank call on Halloween. You could at least try some screams or something. Heavy breathing is so nineties." He starts to pull the phone away from his ear, all too ready to go back to sleep. It'd been a long day.

A louder burst of static interrupts him, makes him bring the phone back up. This is his work phone, after all. Not many people have the number. "McGee, if this is your idea of a joke, I'm going to--"

A muffled laugh. He stills. He knows that laugh. "Who is this?" he asks again, quieter this time.

_"--fzzz--crcklesssss--wow, I thought I'd die before I ever heard-ssssss-----" _Click.

He sits up straight, eyes wide, cold sweat suddenly soaking his clothes. The october air on his skin is freezing after the comfort of his bed, and he can feel the hair on the back of his neck and his arms standing straight up, static electricity running up and down his spine. It can't be a prank. Only he and Gibbs know about-- those last words, and Gibbs isn't the type-- there's only one other person who would---

"Kate?" he breathes, into the mouthpiece of his phone.

_"bzzzzt-- We're sorry, but the customer you have dialed is no longer in service. Please hang up and try again."_

He closes the phone. Then he sits there and shakes and shakes and shakes.

* * *

November first, and the bullpen is quiet and subdued. Tony walks in clutching his extra large cup of coffee-- lots of milk and sugar-- dark circles under his eyes. He didn't ever quite get back to sleep last night, sitting up first in bed, then in front of the TV, volume on mute, phone clutched in his hand the entire time, waiting and maybe hoping.

McGee looks as bad as Tony feels, and Tony avoids the other man's eyes as he sits down at his desk, sipping his coffee. He pulls up a game of solitaire on his computer, puts his feet up. They don't have any open cases at the moment, and while he has paperwork from the case yesterday to deal with, he really doesn't feel like it at the moment. McGee is pretending to work industriously, but he hasn't typed a word in the last ten minutes, and his eyes are glazed over. Gibbs is at his desk and ignoring them all.

Ziva's half an hour late, as usual, and she comes in grouchy. She tosses her bag to the ground, then pulls out a scrap of paper and stalks over to McGee's desk, holding it out to him, stiff-armed. He takes it, glancing down at it then up at her, bemused. Both Tony and Gibbs stop what they're doing to watch.

"I need you to trace this number," Ziva says, crossing her arms over her chest.

"What is it?" McGee asks, eyes skimming the text and then looking up. Then he does a double-take, and his face goes pale. Maybe even a little green around the edges. Ziva doesn't notice as she rolls her eyes, too caught up in her own irritation.

"Whoever that is prank called me last night, and spent ten minutes just breathing at me. I want to know who it is, and then I'm going to--" she stutters to a stop, the sudden intensity of her teammates' gazes bringing her to a halt.

"What?!" she snaps.

McGee clears his throat.

"I don't need to trace it," he says, voice low. "I know whose it is already."

Ziva furrows her brow, head jerking as she takes in the scrutiny from every side. "Then tell me who it is," she says, slower, "so I can--"

Tony's up and out of his chair before he even realizes it, ripping the paper out of McGee's hands and determinedly crumpling it into a ball. He drops it into McGee's trash can, and Ziva is staring at him, eyes squinted with the beginning of anger. Her mouth is opening to yell at him, to curse him out, whatever, and he interrupts her before she can get there.

"Just leave it alone, Ziva," he says, and his voice is strange even to his own ears.

Her jaw snaps shut, and an unreadable expression flits across her face. "All right," she capitulates, finally. "Never mind. But if they call back again--" and she leaves the threat hanging, turns sharply on her heel and heads back to her desk, goes to work.

Tony stands there staring at the ball of paper in the trashcan for a long moment, not really seeing it, before heading back to his own desk. He pulls his case files back up, starts working on his report.

The rest of the morning is quiet except for the monotone clacking of their keyboards

_fin_


End file.
